


blade in the dark

by FrostyChess (chesswatchesclouds)



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types, Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Assassin's Festival DLC, Gen, Murder, in which reader is an actual assassin who is sick of this bullshit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-09-22
Packaged: 2019-01-03 21:25:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12155112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chesswatchesclouds/pseuds/FrostyChess
Summary: "Who's looking for an Assassin when everyone's an Assassin?"you are Sicario, and you are an Assassin.





	blade in the dark

**Author's Note:**

> so the assassin's festival dlc is awesome-sauce and this was inevitable. enjoy! x

_Well_ , you think wryly,  _this is nice_.

With your earbuds sitting snugly in place, you are deaf to the sounds of the festival around you. Instead, you choose to watch with puzzled amusement as ordinary men and women chase the adrenaline thrill of the Leap of Faith; dressed in robes of reds and blues and greens ( _really_?), they each leap from the platform and into the strategically placed haystack below, with only a handful overdoing it and leaving with broken bodies.

You wince at the impact but ultimately have little pity - this festival has taken what is known to be a rite of passage in the Brotherhood and turned it into an adrenaline attraction. Your first Leap of Faith had been thrilling and terrifying and liberating, the first step into the shadowed world of the Brotherhood as a true Assassin, the first leap into the life of your ancestors.

These  _cosplayers_  have no idea of the significance of what they are choosing so carelessly to do. Your Leap of Faith had taken days of consideration, months of preparation. These ordinary people, these pretenders, chase a myth and a  _legend_  - they celebrate a fabricated man and a fabricated legend, both of which currently serve as your disguise.

You’re perched on the Lestallum overview, the backs of your heels kicking the stone in beat to the music filling your ears with wonderful, distracting sound. You’re leaning on one of the telescopes and watching the world go by; the Disc of Cauthess lies in the distance, though merely a crater now rather than the impressive meteor it once was. What a sight  _that_  must have been - Felix has told you a thousand times to come to this spot and look for it - but you are, of course, a few months too late. You can’t even imagine what it must have been like, to see an actual  _god_  holding up a meteor from the world. It’s almost too good to be true.

Your music cuts off as your phone rings, a common, everyday ringtone that cuts through the conversations around you but disturbs none of them. It distracts you from where you’ve just started watching a sleek and fancy, gleaming black car roll into the parking lot. The doors swing open as two young men eagerly tumble out, chattering away and pointing at the banners around them, listening to the sounds of the festivities they can hear from the lot.

“Felix,” you greet casually, though your interest is hardly on him; it has instead been piqued by these strange newcomers. “I made it.”

Next, out lumbers a large man with his chest bared and  _wicked_ scars across his forehead and cheek. He watches the other two with a strange and annoyed fondness and shouts after them in a voice like tumbling boulders not to go too far. He’s followed by a taller man with glasses, who slides elegantly from the driver’s seat and sighs, adjusting the gloves on his hands. It’s the kind of sigh you’re used to Felix giving you, cool and resigned, but with the same underlying fondness of the largest of the four.

“ _Good_ ,” replies Felix in your ears. You reach to adjust your earbuds. “ _How’s the festival_?”

“Over exaggerated outfits and idiots breaking bones,” you report, watching a man stride past you wearing white and red. His accent is  _terrible_ ; is he trying to be Accordan?

“ _You’re kidding_.  _I thought they’d have shut that thing down already_.”

“Nope.”

Across the lot, you subjects of interest have noticed you perched on the wall. With the sun now at your back they squint in your direction, curious and dangerous. You need to get moving.

“They’ve got potions on hand, at least, this year.”

“ _Well that’s a step-up from last year, then_.”

You hop off the wall, adjusting your hood and collar as you do so. You take the steps two at a time, reaching them moments before the younger two do, and catching a breathy exhale of, “Whoa, look at  _that_  costume! Can we get?  _Please_ , Noct?” as you scamper off.

“It’s good cover, at least,” you tell Felix breathily. “Who’s looking for an Assassin when  _every_ one is an Assassin?”

“ _True_ ,” replies Felix. “ _It’s about the only good thing about this time of the year_.”

“You mean you don’t appreciate the meek imitations of the Brotherhood? The irritating imitation of our traditions?”

“ _Ha. No. Sol’s waiting for you at the Bureau, kid, get to it_.”

You lift your scarf over your mouth and nose, covering your smirk as you cast one last look over your shoulder. It’s habitual to do so, ingrained into you by years and years of training and preparation, but you meet the cool and calculating gazes of the last man to leave the car. His gaze is worrisomely scrutinising, his lips turned down.

“Tell her I’m on my way,” you say to Felix, turning away again. Your stomach is in knots. “I just wanted to see the sights first.”

“ _You see the Disc, kid_?”

“What’s left of it, yeah. Titan’s  _gone_ , remember?”

“ _Bet it’s still impressive_ ,” Felix says.

“Yeah,” you reply. “An impressive hole in the ground.”

The Lestallum Bureau lies on the edge of the city, where it’s quiet and unsuspecting. With the festival in full swing, the nearby streets are deserted. Sol has the door open, soft-played music drifting into the gentle breeze and silence. She’s sitting at her desk, head cocked to the left and eyes fixed to an unseen point on the bookshelf by the door. Her fingers brush lazily over the book in front of her.

You promise to call Felix back in five minutes. He tells you it will be three, at most.

“Good morning,” Sol greets. Cloudy eyes flit over to you in the doorway, where you idle for longer than necessary.

You wait 30 seconds, pettily waiting for the clock to strike noon.

“It’s afternoon, actually.”

Sol abandons her book and reaches for her cane. For a few, tense seconds, you think she’s going to club you over the head with it. Instead, she taps along the floor and makes her way to the bookshelf beside you while you tug your scarf down and close the Bureau door. You finger the cord of your earbuds where you’ve stuffed them into your pocket; they’ll be a tangled mess when you pull them free, but at least you’ll have something to do while you wait for your target later.

She returns to her desk, wielding in her hand a crisp manila folder. She waits impatiently for you to take it from her; Miles Fractus, reads the name, in elegant calligraphy. Directly beneath it, the name is repeated in braille. Inside is a portrait of a Lucian nobleman, his beard peppered grey and his dark and serious. This picture is a bigger help to you than the grainy, unfocused CCTV image Felix had manage to get for you before your departure to Lestallum.

“You know our ways,” Sol rasps softly. Felix told you once that she used to have a light, airy voice, full of jokes and laughter. Now she has scars on her throat and scratched across her eyes, and you don’t think you’ve ever seen her smile.

“Learn what you can,” she continues, returning to her book. Her fingers are already sliding smoothly along the pages as she finishes, “and when the time is right, see that his evil upon the world is finished.”

“It will be done,” you dutifully answer, hearing your dismissal and beginning your retreat. Sol offers no “good day,” and you do not give one in return.

Felix answers after two rings. “ _Two minutes, 47 seconds_.  _You alive_?”

“Yeah.” You inhale shakily. You look up and down the alley, phone to your ear and scarf tugged back into place. “I know you told me she’s nice but honestly, I think she wants to kill anyone who steps into her Bureau.”

“ _She’s still one of the best, kid, show some respect_.”

“She’s  _scary_ , Felix,” you insist. “Scary Sol.”

“ _You ain’t seen nothing yet_.”

The folder is tucked under your arm, the corner of Fractus’ portrait extended from within. It’s a reminder of the work to be done, a promise of a death to shadow the festival. You approach the square with more caution than before, hiding your already covered face and keeping the folder close. It’s a shame to watch the people bustling around, enjoying themselves, knowing that tomorrow morning Fractus’ body will be found and nerves will be on edge.

You find a quiet spot in the shade, slumping onto the bench against the wall and finding bliss in the reprieve from the blistering sun. Lestallum, with its intolerable and relentless heat, has never been your favourite place in Eos. You slide your scarf down to inhale glorious, cool and fresh air, the folder set on the woof at your side as you tilt your face up.

“ _So_ ,” Felix says. “ _Miles Fractus._ ”

You grip the folder and flip it open. “‘Instrumental in the fall of Insomnia,’” you read. The information is typed but, scribbled in the margin in Nova’s familiar, loopy script, is ‘EXAGGERATION. Responsible for the murder of five of our Order during Insomnia’s fall.’

“ _Huh_ ,” Felix muses. “ _That’s not what Nova told me_.”

“Oh, having private phone calls with Nova, are we?” As Felix flusters, you add, “I’m sure her input, wherever it comes from, will be invaluable.”

You continue reading.

“Turns out he passed on information to the Empire about the Kingsglaive and the Crownsguard.”

“ _The Crownsguard weren’t even in the city_.”

“No, but the Kingsglaive imploded.”

The Mentor had been near inconsolable at the news; many of his friends, and many of the Brotherhood’s informants, had been members of Regis’ Kingsglaive.

“ _If this guy was as close to the King as Sol and Nova claim, Prince Noctis is in trouble_ ,” Felix deduces.

“He’s always in trouble,” you grouse. “Isn’t that what his retinue is for?”

You close the folder and set it down on the bench again, promising yourself that you’ll look through it more closely when you return to your hotel room. With sweat beading along your hairline and dripping down the back of your neck, you lower your hood, revelling in the feel of cool stone against your skin.

“ _Hey_ ,” Felix says suddenly, “ _Is Prince Noctis at the festival_?  _There’s chatter from the informants_.”

“How would I know?”

“ _Have you seen anyone that looks like him_?”

“The only face I’ve seen since I got here is…” You think of the fancy car and the young men staggering out, the large beast of a man with the scars and the tattoo, the glasses and the elegance that speaks of nobility from birth.  _Please, Noct_? You hear repeated in the back of your mind.

“Ah, shit,” you sigh.

“ _What_?”

“He’s here,” you report, rubbing your temple.

“ _How do you know?_ ”

“I saw him.” It’s obvious now; the all black outfits, how they stood out even when doing their best to draw no attention to themselves.

“ _Huh_ ,” muses Felix. “ _Maybe you should try and find him again, see how well protected he is_.”

“I have a target, Felix,” you remind him, “and the Prince has his own little party. I’m sure he doesn’t  _need_  my-”

“Hey, it’s you!”

It’s the blonde from earlier, all bouncing, electric energy. In his hands is a camera, well-used but cherished, and you watch it cautiously. It would do no good to have your picture taken here with your hood and scarf lowered, especially not with the murder you intend to commit tonight. He’s grinning, staring intensely at your outfit, and behind him you meet the curious stares of the Prince and his travelling party.

You crane your neck back to stare at the blonde ball of excitable energy. “Uh, hi?”

“It  _is_  you, right?” he asks. “You were on the wall when we got here.”

Eyebrows raised and a smirk tugging at your lips, you reply naughtily, “Careful. I might think you’re flirting.”

His cheeks are tinted red as he fumbles for a retort; the large form of the Prince’s Shield intrudes then, towering over you. He’s all tanned skin and scars and rippling muscles, intimidatingly standing at the blonde’s shoulder.

“ _Speak of the devil._ ” You’ve forgotten about Felix. “ _Is that who I think it is_?”

“Let me call you back,” you tell him, and you hang up on his garbled complaints.

“Can I take your picture?” squeals the blonde as you pocket your phone. “Your costume is  _amazing_.”

If you say yes, Felix will have a fit.

“Sure,” you tell him. “Let me get my hood and scarf up so you have the full effect.”

If they don’t get your face, one picture is harmless, right?

You learn the blonde’s name is Prompto (You learn this from Glasses, standing at Noctis’ shoulder and sighing in soft resignation, the single action speaking of past actions that have had no off-putting effect whatsoever), and he snaps a picture of you in the same pose, still slouched languidly on hte bench.

“So where did you get that costume?” asks Noctis curiously. He sounds childishly excited; it seems the Prince is a fan of the festival and the legend. “Were they selling them at the stand?”

“No,” you answer with a shrug.  _It’s authentic, actually_. “It’s one of a kind.”

“Whoa,” breathes Prompto. “You must really love the festival, huh?”

A smile tugs your lips upwards as you drop your scarf again. “Something like that.”

“You’ve certainly put in an admirable amount of craftsmanship,” comments Glasses; what’s supposed to be a compliment sounds more like an indifferent observation.

“That knife certainly looks real,” adds the Prince’s Shield in a suspicious growl, eyes fixed on the Kukri knife strapped to your thigh. It’s not your favourite weapon to use, neither is the handgun that rests comfortably on your hip, but sometimes your hidden blade isn’t enough.

Your smile never slips; you’ve been taught better than that.

“Adds to the authenticity,” you tell him, with a one-shouldered shrug. Your hidden blades feel heavy under his scrutiny; they are slimmer and lighter and absolutely out of sight but the intense scrutiny of the Prince’s Shield has you briefly doubting these facts. He’d have to look  _very_  closely to see them, close enough that as soon as he’d know they were there, they’d be buried in his throat.

“Right,” he says.

“Well, it’s  _awesome_ ,” says Prompto, with a muted agreement from Noctis. His eyes flit to the folder on the bench next to you, unassuming and flat, and his brows furrow as he catches sight of the emerged corners of Fractus’ portrait. Panic twists your insides and you curse your own stupidity - a rookie mistake that might cost you greatly - but outworldly, you cock your head to the side.

“You boys been to the festival before?” you ask with feigned interest.

Noctis shakes his head. “This is our first time.”

 _Right_ , you think,  _the Prince didn’t leave the Crown City much before_. You’d only visited the city once, trailing after your Mentor has he met with one of the Glaives, trading information that couldn’t risk being sent over even the most secure of networks. It had been odd, feeling the curious stares of the Glaives that accompanied him; braided and tattooed, one had tried to approach you with question, to make small-talk and learn what he could. He’s probably dead now, despite how kind he’d been to you, full of flirty jokes once he’d realised you had nothing to tell him.

The Kingsglaive imploded shortly after news of the treaty broke, torn apart from the inside by those who stood with the King and those who did not.

“You should try the Leap of Faith,” you offer. “It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity.”

“Please,” sighs Glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose as Prompto and Noctis titter excitedly and start to beg loudly, “don’t give them any more ideas.”

“C’mon Iggy,” says the Shield, nudging him with one large arm. “Let them live a little.”

“There  _are_  potions on stand-by this year,” you tell him helpfully.

“That,” says ‘Iggy’ in a strangled voice, “does little to soothe the soul.”

You shrug, retreating from the conversation seamlessly and a little victoriously. Rising to your feet only draws attention to how small you are in comparison to them; all the skills in the world will not help you if those four decided to team up against you.

“Hey, you look like a dab hand at this stuff,” comments the Shield as you prepare to leave. “Any tips on not dying?”

 _Don’t get caught_ , the Mentor instructed you.  _Always have an escape route. Trust your instincts_.

“Yeah,” you say aloud. “Don’t.”

“Well, that is helpful,” Iggy says. He is distinctly unimpressed.

You half-heartedly lift your hand to wave. “Nice meeting you all. Enjoy the festival.”

It’s an hour later, after you’ve retreated to your hotel room to wait for nightfall, that you realise you left that damn folder on the bench.

Felix is going to kill you.

* * *

The folder is, naturally, gone when you try to retrieve it. Felix chews you out for hours but he dutifully reads information from his own copy of the file and helps you to plan your attack.

Fractus has a clockwork schedule, one you can easily subject yourself into, and you tail from from the rooftops and alley corners, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Lestallum is lit by golden lights strung from rooftop to rooftop, floating over the alleys and the square and casting the city in an orange glow. From above, you are not in this light but rather, as always, the blade in the dark, one with the shadows you have thrived in since birth.

Fractus is alone and muttering to himself, paranoid and glancing over his shoulder repeatedly. They never look above, despite their knowledge of your Order and your methods, despite knowing of the aerial attack made so infamous by your brothers and sisters. He is expecting you, can no doubt feel the blade ready at his neck and the clawed hands of death reaching for him.

“ _If he catches sight of you_ ,” Felix had told you earlier, as you’d prepared your weapons and sunk into the right mindset, “ _he will flee and alert the Empire. Don’t make another mistake, kid_.”

“I won’t fail,” you’d told him. The weight of your earlier blunder weighed heavy on your mind and still does. Setting it aside to focus on your mission is easier said than done. “I can’t fail.”

“ _I know, kid. I know_.”

You can’t think about the wayward file now, not when your target is so close and  _you_  are so close. For you, the festival is drawing to a close. For you, it ends when you sink the hidden blade into his neck, when his blood stains the stones underfoot and warms your hands.

More blood to blacken your soul and drag you further away from the Astrals’ light.

Unbidden, Noctis comes to mind, the fleeing Prince and his loyal friends; ‘Iggy’ and his sharp gaze, the Shield and his thick, dangerous arms, Prompto and his carefree grin and camera. They’ll never know what you’ve done and what you’ll continue to do, how you work in the dark to serve the Prince, how you worked in the dark to serve the King but was still unable to prevent the inevitable fall. Will Prompto delete that picture, come the morning? Or will they hold onto it as a memento of that time they met and spoke with a murderer?

Fractus turns a corner into a darkened alley, far from the quieter buzz of the festival and the city. You are silhouetted by the moon as you step onto the roof’s edge. With a jerk of your hand, your hidden blade  _snicks_  free, the metal cool against your fingers and glowing silver in the light. There is nothing but cool detachment on your features as you take a deep breath, inhaling the chilled night air and letting it fill your lungs.

You exhale.

You leap.

“You’re too late, Assassin,” he splutters as you gently lower him to the cold ground. You remove your hidden blade from his neck far less smoothly; holding him in your arms is a mockery of comfort after the harshness of your actions only seconds prior.

“The Empire are already on their way,” he wheezes.

“I’m not here to prevent that,” you say softly. His blood is warm where it stains your fingers. “You know the part you played in Insomnia’s destruction - this merely retribution.”

“Retribution,” he repeats. He is breathless with every inhale. “I only did what I had to.”

“As do I.”

“Fools, all of you,” he manages. “The Empire have brought peace and order. What have you Assassins ever wrought but instability?”

“Oppression is not peace,” you reply gently.

One last cough and a shuddering exhale. “Careful of your double-edged sword, my dear,” he tells you in a low voice. “See that it doesn’t cut you in half when you fall on it.”

His words are nothing the Templars haven’t told you before but, still, like they always do, they bring your brows together in a frown. You lower him to the ground and close his eyes with shaking fingers, one last act of decency that separates you from the common murderer.

“Rest in peace,” you murmur as you rise.

You linger for longer than you should, blood dripping from your hand and onto the ground you stand upon. There is very little satisfaction in the kill, nothing to fill in the blanks of the Templar plans; Felix will be just as frustrated as you. What use do the Templars have with the Empire? You lift your eyes from the body to find that you are not as alone as you’d thought.

Standing at the end of the alley, horror written on every line of his face and his Shield standing at his back, is Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.

**Author's Note:**

> hmu on [tumblr](https://chesswatchesclouds.tumblr.com) \- i don't bite! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧


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